Waking the Wounded
by halo fire
Summary: During one sleepless, moonless night, Aragorn dreams, and reflects. My first, and probably last LotR fic.


Waking the Wounded  
halo fire  
june 13th 2002  
11:55 pm  


Holy Hell, what was I thinking? Writing a fic about a story I've never really been interested in? A recipe for diaster, no doubt. But there is a reason behind this. I'm a member of Slash Writers Weekly at Livejournal, and this week's guidelines were for Lord of the Rings. So... had to do it. But, in all honesty, I am pleased with the result. You crazy LOTR fanatics and pervy elf fanciers can tell me how I did. XDD

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Restless sleep. A tossing, tense slumber with disturbing images dragging their merciless claws across an already haggard mind. Reaching out into the dark, whispering, mumbling incomprehensible names and words, eyelids fluttering to reveal the dark orbs within, but never opening. Calling out to people who would never come, never reach him this deep into his mind. They could never cross those treacherous bridges, never bypass the thick walls he had put up around his heart and perhaps forgot to dismantle.

There was... blood. And Orcs. Screams and shouts, growls and howls riddled the air. Surrounded, on all sides, sharp points of dangerous weapons poking and prodding at them. When one stumbled too close, got too brave, all hell broke loose from its tight confines. The images blurred, faded and burst back into color, only to be distorted once more. Shapes, colors, ghosting past, a touch that never really touched him, a wound that he never really felt. Only searching for one face in the crowd, the mess of blades and dark, deformed visages. And he was starting to panic, Anduril slicing through the air, the elfish weapon felling anything that stood in his way. Kept him from reaching that one, that one he cared so dearly about.

Suddenly, very suddenly, an arrow wizzing past his ear. He spun around quickly, following its flight. It struck its target a second later, and his eyes widened, a strangled cry erupting from his throat, yet it made no sound. The elven man falling to his knees, staring down in shocked horror at the arrow protruding from his chest. It had pierced his heart, no doubt, the fleshy muscle struggling to pump blood despite the gaping hole it now possessed. Blood gushed unrealistically from the wound, spilling out in excess to stain the man's pristine, velvety tunic. He coughed, and blood dribbled down his olive chin. It had been his own arrow.

Eyes that were slowly darkening with the glaze of death turned onto him, pleading. Begging. Somehow, some way he could stop this from happening, could he not? He didn't have to die like this, his love could save him. Couldn't it? _Couldn't it?_ Then why, if it could, if it was so possible, was he not doing anything? Simply standing there, like the worthless, human twit he was. Wasn't worth anything. Completely useless!

An arrow struck him in the throat as the world around him darkened, and his words finally gurgled forth, voice squelching and wet with blood and saliva.

"Legolas!"

** - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - **

Aragorn cut himself off as he sat upright in bed, one hand clutching at his throat and the other reaching out into the depths of the dark room. His mind slowly registered the details as his eyes refocused, unclear from the blur of sleep. The small bedside table to his right. The unused bureau tucked quietly into a corner. Clothing draped over the back of a chair nearby. His sword offering a comforting gleam. Grimy sheets flapping in the wind, not doing a very good job as makeshift curtains. The night was dark, and all was quiet, save the stubbled man's heavy breathing.

He looked at his hand for a long time, long, calloused digits. Dirt under his fingernails, buried into the lines of his palm. He ran these hands over his face, burying himself in his own thick scent. Brushed the sweat from his forehead, ran his fingers through his dark tangles as best he could, and sighed, finally. After a moment, he carefully disentangled himself from the sheets of the bed and strode quietly over towards the window.

Aragorn gazed out at the sky. It seemed to be lonely, miserable without the pregnant, silvery moon at its side, and Aragorn could relate. The stars brightened the night, but just barely. Dim starlight falling over his barechested form, not even highlighting the green, gold, blue flecks in his dark eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the window, staring out into the dreary, moonless sky.

It had been quite some time since Legolas had been badly injured. So badly, in fact, that no one believed he would survive the wounds. It hadn't happened like it did in the horrid nightmares that plagued the bearded man's mind, not exactly, but it was similar. Surrounded by Orcs, but not so many, everyone confident they could win the battle. Maybe too confident. Maybe that had been their fault, their greatest mistake. Towards the end of the fight, the blond elf had been struck by the sword of a dying Orc. He fell to his knees, just like in the dream, clutching at his gaping wound, thick, warm blood staining ivory hands. Just like in the dream, Aragorn's anguished scream had ripped through the air, and he rushed through the last few disfigured enemies to reach the agile nonhuman, gone unconscious from the shock.

Legolas hadn't known how much Aragorn cared for him, then. Aragorn, himself, did not even know until the blade pierced the elf's fair skin, and the high possibility of losing him arose. He hadn't gotten a chance to tell the elven prince how much he cared, how much he _loved_ the arrow-wielding man. So Aragorn had lost hope, collapsed into himself with misery. That had been the worst time of his life.

But he was glad it was over.

Dark eyes roved over the small room, settling on the quietly sleeping form. Padded noiselessly over to the bed and climbed carefully on it, the inn mattress hard but warm to the touch. He lay, staring at the back that faced him, one arm propping himself up. The other, hestitant, but finally ghosting its way down the smooth hip, feeling the bone through the clear skin. Brushing over the small, fine hairs just below the navel, following the flat but muscled abdomen, the lines of definition. Sliding his palm over one small, pink nipple that hardened to his touch, fingertips trailing lightly down one slim arm, pressing all five fingers against a slender, delicate hand. A hand that grasped his in reply.

He brought their hands up to rest against the smooth, hairless chest, kissing one bare shoulder.

A soft, pleased sigh. "Aragorn... ?"

Vivid, bright eyes met striking ones of black as the other looked over his shoulder. A smile graced his face, and he leaned up, offering his mouth. No hesitation this time, as Aragorn's lips descended to capture the slender, full ones, tongue sliding past the parted mouth. The kiss wasn't aggressive, their tongues sliding and stroking each other, dipping into the well-known corners of their hot caverns. The slender form rolled over, one hand reaching up to entangle itself in the messy dark strands of the head above him. The tenderly passionate kiss lasted for what seemed to be an eternity before they parted for air, breathing hard.

"Legolas...," Aragorn breathed, gently brushing away strands of gold from the elven man's face.

"You're so beautiful." Said in unison, the words escaping from their lips at the exact same moment. The blonde archer had heard it several times, but it was a first for the gruff wanderer. He had been called many things, but... beautiful? Looking into a mirror, Aragorn could see no such thing.

"Legolas." Whispered again, and the elfish prince pressed his lips against Aragorn's own, a bit more rough, more urgent and needy. And he gladly let himself drown in the love that surrounded him. The stars were shining a bit brighter, because the moon really was there, watching and sending its love. Even if one couldn't see it.

And he was _so_ glad that time had ended, that it was finally over. 


End file.
